


If Ever There Is a Tomorrow

by somethingclever



Series: Tim IS a caring and nurturing person. [10]
Category: Justified
Genre: M/M, Tim's past may be dead but it wasn't well-buried, family fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-04 20:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingclever/pseuds/somethingclever
Summary: Tim's past has fangs.It's biting him in the ass.(takes place between parts 7 and 8 of this series - so yes, we're taking a small step backwards in that timeline.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together... there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we're apart... I'll always be with you.”   
> ― A.A. Milne

Artie was almost two, and Tim had been with Raylan for almost a year when his past bit him in the ass.  His past had some fuckin’ big fangs on it, too.

 

Tim was grilling burgers on the back patio, the windows open and Raylan watched as he played with the spatula, flipping it end over end and catching it by the handle.  Dinner would be in ten more minutes, the kids were playing with a ball, and this was... well, it was heaven.

 

Tim’s phone rang, and he answered it, frowning at the screen, "Gutterson."

 

Raylan saw his spine stiffen, and his head tilt back, looking up at the sky. "Thank you. Yes, I understand." he pocketed the phone, and flipped the burgers, stepping back afterwards, staring down into the coals, suddenly, subtly different.  This wasn't the man he shared his life with, who Artie called 'daddy'.  The man standing there was... Tim caught him looking and raised an eyebrow, smiling a little, sounding like himself, "Few more minutes on these," he said, and nothing but Raylan's neck hairs gave him away.

 

"Who was that on the phone?"

 

"Hmm? Oh. Oh, that.... Wrong number," Tim said, and Raylan nodded, going back inside.  They both knew Raylan knew it wasn't, but he wouldn't press.  Wouldn’t do a lick of good.

 

Raylan went to bed that night and heard Tim slip out into the garage – he was gone a few minutes – and then padding around the house, going from window to window and checking both doors before sliding in beside him.  Raylan slid a questing hand over to him, testing to see what mood he was in, and was met with a, "Not tonight, okay?" and an apologetic kiss.  It stung, a little, but Raylan let it slide.  

 

He'd talk when he had a mind to.

 

When he fell asleep, Tim's breathing was still awake.

 

He seemed his normal self in the morning, and after work it was as if nothing had happened, except Raylan's neck hairs prickled and Artie was clinging onto Tim like a limpet. It took Tim until after Raylan was asleep to get him to go down for bed.

 

At 2AM, he woke up, blinking at the ceiling. What...

 

"Raylan," Tim whispered, "You awake?"

 

"Am  _now_ ," he muttered groggily, "The hell's goin' on?"

 

"In the morning, take the kids like you normally would, but my truck," Tim said softly, "And go to Winona's.  When she's up, take her, too, if she'll go- I put the address you need to go to into your GPS, okay?  Stay there until I come get you, or somebody who has my tags. That phonecall yesterday was... a former co-worker, warning me."

 

Raylan had never been more fully fucking awake in his entire life. “What?”

 

"She's dead, got the news at about ten this evening," Tim said, "Everybody else who went on that op's already gone. Just me, left."

 

"What the hell, Tim?"

 

"It was a clean one," Tim said, sitting on the edge of the bed, "Did it for Uncle Sam, even, as a contractor... I'm so sorry, Raylan."

 

"How can you be sure they know where you are?"

 

Tim bit his lip, getting up and going to his drawer, pulling out a manila envelope.  He shook out the contents and Raylan felt ill. It was one thing to see yourself in photos like this, with a scope drawn 'round your head, but your kid...

 

He felt guilty for his relief that there wasn't a photo of Willa, only Artie and himself.  


"What are you going to do?"

 

"Now, Marshal," Tim whispered, his hand cupping Raylan's face, "You know the answer to that."

 

"Not leavin' you."

 

"You don't, you make me break my promise to  _my son_ ," Tim said, his voice suddenly harsh and pained, his hand closing around the back of Raylan's neck, making him wince -Tim loosened his grip immediately, panic flitting across his face, "that he'd  _never_  have an asshole daddy.  There's a chance I'll make it, Raylan. It's actually not that bad a chance. I promise. I've done worse."

 

"Years ago.”

 

"It's like ridin' a bike," Tim said, smiling.   


Raylan looked at the clock, and at Tim, his jaw fluttering. "Tim..."

 

"I was gonna let you sleep longer," Tim admitted, "But I... well, I didn't much wanna be alone. I'm sorry. But… but I’m glad you’re here.”

 

Raylan's breath came out in a hard little sob, and he reached up to Tim, wrapping one arm around his shoulders, the other around his waist, using his weight to draw them back down on the bed, "I'm here, Tim. I'm here." Tim lay on top of him, clinging, and Raylan buried his face in Tim's throat. "I love you," he whispered, and Tim whispered back,

 

"I know."  Tim's smile was something Raylan would see when he closed his eyes for years.  It hurt.  It  _hurt_ , but he loved it. 

 

"...did you just quote Star Wars?"

 

"Shut up, it makes me feel better in general," Tim grumbled, and Raylan huffed a little laugh, lying back and holding his love until the alarm went off.

 

Tim talked to him in those hours, about how happy he was, about his son and Raylan's daughter, about how Raylan'd saved his life a few times over, about how he wished he'd told Art about that CD gunning for him, but at the same time, how glad he was because of where it got him. It got him _here_ , and there was nowhere else Tim wanted-

 

Raylan listened and held him, and when their time was up they got up, kissed at the doorway to their bedroom, and went to face the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raylan's not used to waiting at home for the hero. 
> 
> Maybe he should take up knitting?

Tim sent them up into Georgia - Winona came, and Raylan was five kinds of grateful she didn't throw it in his face, didn't blame Tim, and sometimes, he remembered why he'd ever loved her.

 

She wasn’t happy, but then again, neither was he.  Waiting helpless wasn’t something Raylan had experience with.

 

Winona laughed, watching him as she drank a cup of tea, Willa and Artie playing on the floor in the middle of the cabin. “Now you know how it feels. Sucks, doesn’t it?”

 

“I didn’t do this to you,” he protested, and she raised her eyebrows.

 

“I didn’t mean to,” he amended, “How the hell do you do it?”

 

“You wait, and you try’n think about anything else you can think about.  There are plenty of books,” she nodded at the shelves, and Raylan didn’t want to think about books right now.

 

Artie was okay until bedtime, when he melted down into a sobbing mess, going from room to room calling for Tim. For the first time in his life, his daddy was nowhere to be found, and Raylan’s heart just about broke as he finally crawled onto Raylan's chest in an unconscious mimicry of Tim, fourteen hours previous.  He fell asleep still whimpering, sucking his fingers and clinging to his monkey.

 

 _Dammit,_  Tim!

 

"He'll be okay, Raylan," Winona said softly - Willa hadn't fussed, she liked the cabin, liked to watch out the windows- so did Raylan, it was the most defensible place he'd seen  _in his life_ , and he'd seen quite a few places, thank you. 

 

"He better be," Raylan muttered, petting his fingers down Artie's back, soothing himself as much as the boy.  Sometimes he imagined he looked like Tim - in his expressions, anyways.

 

"He damn well better be."

 

*  


Three days, and Artie still wouldn't sleep anywhere but Raylan's chest.  Raylan was exhausted, Winona was cranky, and Willa, bless her little heart, just couldn't figure out what was wrong.  

 

Twilight was falling on that third day when Artie looked towards the front door, "Daddy?"

 

"Honey, daddy's not there," Raylan said, glancing out himself, and Artie shook his head, smacking his hand on the metal.

 

"Daddy!"

 

Raylan went to the window - there were no cars in the drive, and he didn't reckon Tim would come up without a car.  He went to each window in turn, scanning for anything out of place, anything unusual or different - he didn't see anything.

 

The power flickered off while he was looking out the back window, in Willa's room, and he growled, scooping Willa under one arm and waving Winona towards the safe room in the middle of the little house.

 

He went back to the front door for Artie, only to stop dead in the doorway between the rooms.

 

Artie'd opened the door, and that was  _certainly_  not Tim.

 

"Hello, little man," the man smiled down at Artie, and up at Raylan, eyes cold and flat, "I think I'd like to come in and wait a while, if I could? And if you would be  _so kind_  as to put that gun down, sir, wouldn't want this little guy to see anything he shouldn't, would we?"

 

He heard the safe room door close and thanked God at least his daughter would make it out.

 

Raylan obeyed, because if he didn't, he'd see Tim's son die, and even knowing he'd killed the man who did it wouldn't make it anything like okay...Artie looked between them, confused, and Raylan reached out a hand, willing himself to stay calm, "C'mere, Arthur," he said softly, "C'mon over here."  Something in his peripheral flickered - his phone, the ID showing Tim-  and he moved towards a chair, settled in front of the window, "Come sit on my lap, I'll tell ya a story."

 

Artie darted to him - a story?- and the instant he was out from in front of the man, the room shook and the wall blew out, and Raylan scooped Artie into his arms, all but crushing him to his chest. 

 

The man who'd been in their doorway was sprawled across the threshold, blood, bone, and brains spattered back across the stoop.  His head was just...  _gone._

 

A fifty caliber, it had to be, Raylan thought almost hysterically, that bastard shot  _through_  the house.

 

He kept Artie's head firmly against his chest and went into the kitchen, closing the front room door behind him, picking up his guns from where he'd set them, gingerly.  There was a splintered hole through the kitchen wall and cabinets - the crash he'd heard - and he tapped on the door of the safe room - shave and a haircut, two bits - and Winona opened it. He pushed Artie in to her - he'd started screaming, the loud noise and being carried in a non-favored position finally hitting him - and she closed it again.  Raylan went to the kitchen window, listening to the quiet.

 

He was tired.

 

A flashlight was bobbing across the open field, and he called out, sharply, "Either be Tim or get dead."

 

"Naw, it's Tommy Bucks - who do you  _think_  made that shot?" Tim called out to him, voice shaky but relief evident, and Raylan's strings were cut - he flopped onto the back stoop to wait for Tim to make it across the field.  To come back to him.

 

He was there quicker than Raylan would have thought possible, and in arm's-reach.  Raylan pulled him in, burying his face against his neck, "You  _stink_ ," he muttered, "Sweet  _lord_."

 

"Gillie suit'll do that," Tim said, fingers finding Raylan's nape, leaning against him, "Did he... did he see it, Raylan?"

 

"He didn't," Raylan said, "He was on his way to me when..." when Tim made that shot.

 

"Thank you. I can't...  _thank you_."  Tim kissed him, hard, and Raylan clung to him for a second, before pushing him away, forcing himself to focus, "Go get your kid," he said roughly, "And let me handle my family - they're  _all_  scared."

 

Tim nodded - Raylan could see his face in the half-light still left, and he shook his head, "I’m not upset, but... we can't..."

 

"It's okay."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed so far! Once again, action is not my strong suit... please comment!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amateur hour, and going home.

Artie barreled into Tim's legs, bawling and hiccuping, and Tim bent, scooping up his son in one arm and curling him against his chest.  "Hey, baby, it's okay. It's okay, I'm here now." His son burrowed into his neck, clinging onto him with both hands and his legs.  
  
Made the last few days seem even longer.  
  
Tim kissed the top of his head, closing his eyes and swaying, letting himself cling onto his tiny scrap of humanity for just a minute, just a minute, he wouldn't hurt his son, but Tim needed to remember...  
  
He was worth it, worth the gillie suit and the shitstorm he'd stirred up with his former colleagues, worth everything and more.  And he wasn't ever, ever gonna make the dumbass choices Tim had.  (Of course, he'd make his own, but...) Tim glanced at Raylan, comforting his ex and daughter and felt a brief stab of guilt.  He was asking too much, way too much. He shouldn't have asked Raylan to take care of Artie, or expected him to understand.  
  
Raylan had done it, because Raylan was Raylan and absolute shit at saying no when someone needed help of the violent variety, but... Tim shouldn't have.  But, he had.  Just needed to ensure it never happened again...  
  
"What're your plans for the front room?" Raylan asked, and Tim wanted to bury his face in his son's hair and pretend there wasn't a headless corpse in the front room and that the breeze he could feel on his cheek was from an open window, not the gaping hole he'd blown through the back of the house with the high caliber incendiary round.  
  
"Cops are on their way, and specialists," Tim said.  
  
Artie shouldn't be here. Neither should Willa.  Fuck.  
  
He knew this wasn't gonna be prosecuted.  In fact, he was ninety-five percent sure he was now owed somewhere in the vicinity of seventy-five thousand- more if he went in and chopped off that fucker's hand, and called the right people in Beijing.  
  
Artie hiccuped, and Tim rocked him. Probably shouldn't go cut off his hand.  Raylan was looking at him over Winona's head, and Tim decided definitely not.  
  
The police came, and so did the fleet of black SUV's.  The suits led the way, and Tim let Raylan take Artie- better to hand him over willingly than have him taken- and he went to meet them.  
  
The cuffs weren't necessary, but made their point- he wasn't in charge, they were, and he'd better play by their rules... or else.  
  
They let Winona go first- he saw her carry Willa to Tim's truck, buckle her in, and then Raylan came out, carrying Artie's car seat, coming up the little rise to where Tim was sitting, talking to the two suits.  "Do you want me to take him home, or-" Raylan was looking at the suits with undisguised hatred.  
  
Made Tim feel six kinds of warm and fuzzy.  Seven, actually. "I'll be along shortly," he said, "So, yeah, if you could? Sorry, Raylan, I-"  
  
Didn't trust these fuckers, and knew Raylan needed to see Winona and Willa safely home.  He'd take care of Artie- his baby was asleep and Tim ached to hold him for another minute, promise him he'd be there when he woke up, and-  
  
The agent in charge (call me Agent Smith) put a hand on Tim's shoulder, "wouldn't be so sure about that."  
  
Raylan's eyes lit up with that unholy rage he got into, and Tim cleared his throat, looking pointedly at the sleeping child.  He could see Raylan weighing his options, hating them, and accepting that he couldn't beat the fuckers face in.  He leaned in and kissed Tim lightly, "See you soon."  
  
"Yep."  
  
Touching was not Tim's favorite thing.  It ranked only slightly above wet socks and below burned pizza crust.  And he was tired. He waited for Raylan to be out of earshot; and looked up at the agent.  It was well on towards midnight, and they were all still outside. Tim hoped they were getting eaten by mosquitoes.  "We both know you'll let me go in two hours," Tim said, "So, since I'm playing your game so nicely, don't you figure you could gimme, like, an inch of slack?"  
  
The agent laughed, "You must have been a nightmare as a contractor."  
  
"Sure wasn't a fun dream.  Look. You know you wanted him dead, I shot him, and rounded up the rest of the fuckers for you.  Now, consider me suitably intimidated and reminded of my place outside of the law, and release me because you can't afford to have me go to a stand and talk about," he waved his fingers, "Much of anything. So, we cut our losses and everyone goes home happy."  
  
"I like your pragmatism."  
  
"I like your..." Tim squinted, leaning back to look him over, "Your socks don't offend me."  
  
The man laughed, squeezing Tim's shoulder. Amateur.  
  
Sure enough, an hour later- and many questions and stupid answers given and received- Tim was released, fifty thousand and amnesty for this shot richer.  
  
Oh, and they were grateful for his service and patriotism.  He just loved getting thanked for a rough fuck with no goddamn cuddles, and told them so.  
  
After all, how had the 'terrorists' (they weren't, they were a business organization, for fuck's sake, but if they were the T-word, magically the jurisdiction changed) even known where to find him and his team?

 

*

The drive back down to Miami was silent.  Raylan was glad Winona didn't try to talk - at least, until she was dropping him off at Tim's house, and she looked at him, "I hope you know what you're doing, Raylan."

 

"It  _isn't_  his fault. Could've just as easy been someone after me, as you well know, Winona."

 

"Oh, I do know," she said tersely, "And I hope you know what you're doing."

 

He didn't answer her, just unbuckled the car seat out of the back and went inside.  Probably best not to wake him - so he unbuckled the straps, set him down beside their bed, toeing off his boots. He crawled between the covers, lying on his side, hand dangling off the edge to rest on Artie's chest.

 

Dawn was breaking when he heard Tim coming in.  

 

He heard Tim's breath catch as he opened the door to Artie's room, and he called, soft and low, "He's in here with me, Tim."  

 

Tim came in, then, and Raylan looked up at him, feeling every one of his years and the miles he'd put on himself.

 

Even so, somehow, Tim looked older. "Get in the shower," he said softly, "You look like hell."

 

"I feel it," Tim admitted, coming and looking at his son, bending to touch his hair. He straightened back up, and made his way to the bathroom.  Raylan heard the water start running, and rolled onto his back, listening - and when he woke up, Tim was sliding under the blankets with him, smelling of soap.  He reached out for him, and Tim pressed against him, a soft sound in his throat making Raylan close his eyes against the need to press him into the mattress and make that sound for a reason that had nothing to do with fear or pain.

 

Later, he promised himself.  They'd have time, later.

 

For now… “Sleep, darlin’,” he said softly, “I’ve got you, and our boy’s right here. We’re all safe.”

 

Tim buried his face in Raylan’s neck, and he felt hot droplets hit his skin.  He didn’t say anything, just held his partner and let him cry, and fall into exhausted sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this segment! I enjoyed writing it! Please leave comments, if you're so inclined. They keep me writing. 
> 
> And, yes, there's still more of this 'verse planned out. We're not done with the Givens-Gutterson clan. :D Stay tuned!

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments! They make me so happy. <3


End file.
